There’s No Place like No Place for the Holidays

Sometimes we’ll convene
to fuss and bull –
imagining the unforeseen –
to work out if it’s possible

to morph into more mutant forms –
release, for instance, our reliance
on the uninspiring norms
which keep us trapped in human science:

musing, more concisely,
if – sixth sense? –
we might requite precisely
our sharp yearning for a difference –

unmet for far too long a while –
to find a way, perhaps, to disappear –
effect with an unprecedented style
dimensional existence past what’s known as “here.”

The holidays perforce
will soon erupt.
You’ll understand, of course:
we won't show up.





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Art Explains Itself

When I ejaculate and spray –
or pray –
my hands become your child –
wild –

carnally arcane investigator –
transmutator –
at the helm –
cracking towards the primal realm –







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Can’t Help It

Today, en masse,
a quartet, duo, trio
of them came, intent
on making love to moi.

They leered – seductive
with eruptive brio:
seems I’m loaded
with je ne sais quoi.







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This Strange Clown Inside

Here you are again –
your doodling and you.
You can’t remember when
you haven’t noodled like this to construe

the least attempt at a summation:
ah! – the conscientious absence
of the conscious mind! Predation
of another kind breaks down the fence

between whatever activates a vision
and whatever jots it down.
Amazing: the precision
which proceeds from this strange clown

inside who evidently runs the show.
Funny how he has to make it rhyme
to make it glow.
Anyway, at least, again, this time.






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A Private Morning Moment with the Green Man

In the early morning light whose shade and tint
of chartreuse, jade and mint and celadon insinuate
themselves into the scents of his abundant verdure

(newly mown):  a mix of flora and testosterone –
a blast of grassy Spring, a hint of skunkweed funk –  
Daphne thinks he’s quite a hunk – before

he recommits himself to his green archetypal creed
and undergoes the swift experience of turning back
into his mossy leafy vine-y mobile signature man-tree –

though after he drinks yet another cauldron of green tea –
he sits and contemplates the role he is assigned
and finds it interesting that human beings need

so many symbols of the “pagan” – whatever pagan
possibly could mean. (He figured largely in the tarot
cards of Nancy Reagan.) It’s obscene, he thinks,

before he blinks and plink! – another thirsting bud
bursts up from some fast-thatching swatch.
Well, soon I shall be overgrown – tomorrow,

once again, new-mown, he muses – philosophically
scratching his deciduous assiduously sprouting crotch.
Then (so to speak) he “leaves” – resumes his watch.




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Preternaturally Present

We’re fine with everything today, we think –
we’re feeling preternaturally present:
the dissonance which had us at the brink
has now become a plethorably pleasant

mystery.
We're feeling downright sister-y.
No mother of a brother
of a lover of a mother

has it over us.
As richly odorous
and unctuous as brie:
you, and you, and you, and me.

It’s nice to press our flesh together
in this prescient purple weather:
take a random nap
upon a random lap –

thereby to understand –
espy –
not much beyond the adjectivally sweet grand
experience of your, and your, and your, and my.





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Henry’s Back

In the eternal purgatory of his night
wherein his soul experiences yearning
so intensely it may burst abruptly into sight –
in those strange moments of the burning

of his ardor to disperse at last the steam
that otherwise impedes achieving
form – manifestation of the dream –
in that sweet chance of finally relieving

the unbearable condition of his being –
he will sometimes pop upon your knee –
and while you can’t believe you’re seeing
him all winged and plump and naked, he

will whisper – ah! exquisite consonantal spit! –
his unmistakable locutions. Henry James
is back, revealing every last salacious bit
of the explicit truth, naming names.





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